Sticks and Stones
by lembas7
Summary: Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. And that is only the beginning. ECverse.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** The characters, world and premise of Harry Potter belong to JKR; my interpretations are my own. Also, the characters and premise of the Chronicles of Narnia are the property of CS Lewis. Here, my interpretations are my own.

**A/N:** Follows _Ireland vs. Bulgaria_, and is concurrent with _To Question Why_ and _Be Well Tried_. In the universe of my fic "Elijah's Cup," timeline and relevant info in my profile; this fic probably won't make much sense without reading at least that one first, though I'd definitely reccomend "Shield of David" and "Ireland vs Bulgaria" as 'prequel'-type fic as well. Summary from WB Yeats' "The Second Coming.

* * *

STICKS AND STONES

_"Crucio!"_

The sound of screaming went on for a long time; he savored the aria as a composer would, noting tone and pitch and tempo with savage glee. Unnaturally pale fingers wrapped around well-aimed yew; a baton conducting the sounds of agony.

A motion cut the spell short. _My patience with such games is gone. I will have answers._ The air was wet with the noise of ragged panting. "Tell me of this Peter Pevensie, Lucius."

Blond hair, scraggly with fear-sweat, rose from the disordered pile of limbs and robes crouched on splintered floorboards. "I know little, Lord -"

"_Tell me._"

"He's at Hogwarts, working with the Muggle Studies department." Hasty words tripped over themselves. "Dumbledore called him in last year, and he came to my attention through my son. I met Pevensie some years ago when I was a student at Hogwarts."

Voldemort studied the scar. Shiny and new, it skittered from Malfoy's ear to the corner of his mouth. "He is a Mudblood."

"No, Lord."

Red eyes glowed. "A _wizard?_"

"No, Lord."

Around the room, black robes tensed. An arm lifted; yew crackled with power.

"No, Lord! Please, let me -"

"_Crucio!_" The screaming lasted a glorious eternity, this time, until Malfoy's body slumped unconscious at his feet. _"Ennervate."_

None of the other Death Eaters moved as Malfoy gasped his way back to the waking world. He cast about the room, ignoring the muffled groans that filtered up from the floor. _So few._ Polished yew was smooth and warm with power under caressing fingertips. _Too few._ The Aurors had been busy, while he was trapped within slithering scales.

_And with Malfoy's carelessness, I have lost even more -_

"Explain, Lucius," he purred coldly.

Malfoy might be his right hand, but the slender aristocrat was far too bold. His intelligence was of value; however, he would not tolerate the man's arrogant impertinence.

"My Lord, even Dumbledore does not know what Pevensie is. The man is not wizarding kind, for he cannot use a wand, or magic." Desperate, ice-blue eyes were locked on the heavy hem of silken robes. "Yet the man appears not to have aged since I encountered him as a boy – thus he is clearly not a Muggle."

There was a stir throughout the room at this; low murmurings of shock, and conniving speculation.

And there was something in Malfoy's eyes that spoke of hope. _You think you are so important to me, then, to escape unscathed?_ The Dark Lord valued intelligence, for an intrinsic aspect of those who followed was the placid willingness of cattle to be guided. But Malfoy was in dire need of a lesson. "Severus."

The blond aristocrat tensed.

Eyes properly lowered, another black-wreathed figure glided to his side. "Yes, Lord?"

"Tell me what you know of Pevensie."

He did not listen, as Severus began to speak. The spy had told him all before, away from prying ears. Four Pevensies, all with the singular resistance to magic that had never before been encountered by wizards, within or without their world. Red eyes scorched the kneeling man instead.

It was only when he gestured for rotting gray cloaks to approach that panic loosened Malfoy's tongue.

"No, wait, my Lord, please!"

Skeletal, clammy digits wrenched the blond to his feet. They did not have permission to administer the Kiss – Malfoy had more use than that. _But to be a Dementor's plaything –_

"My son, my Lord!"

Red eyes flashed at the interruption of thought. A word froze the Dementors. The room held its breath.

"My son is at Hogwarts, Lord. He has the opportunity for close contact with the Pevensies, more than Severus."

"True," the spy interjected dryly. "A child would have more success at exposing a weakness in them. They are on their guard against most."

"_Look at me_."

Malfoy flinched, raising his eyes.

Magic gathered into a searing probe, rooting through thought and action and plan all tumbled within Lucius' mind. _Interesting._ The idea was intriguing; what he saw of the boy in Malfoy's mind pricked vague interest and hazy memory.

An inclination of his head was all the approval Malfoy would receive. Gray cloaks, deprived of their treat, faded into the room's shadows. The Dark Lord knew the value of wanton cruelty, but he would not be totally unreasonable. To destroy one's greatest tools was tantamount to self-destruction.

The word hissed from his lips. "Nagini."

She answered his summons, coiling slickly about his ankles. Fear was fresh in his nostrils. Ohhhh, such were the joys of renewed life! A scaly head butted under his hand; red eyes never left the sweating aristocrat as he petted the serpent's bony skull.

_He is of great use to me. More, now that he has remembered to fear me. _And his plans required someone with Malfoy's prestige and authority. He had not been idle, those years trapped in the bodies of host creatures.

Fury flared at the memory. _I will have the boy. I will have all those who oppose me. Soon._

His plans were already in motion.

And in the meantime, there was one remaining detail to attend to. Its name was Frank Bryce.

* * *

**A/N2: **Okay, I got myself all turned around with text-lifting, and then having IvB split off from what I thought the rest of the "Goblet of Fire" ECVerse trilogy was supposed to be. So, the timelines are a little wonky so this is the prologue instead of the first actual part of SAS. The first part will be contemporaneous with the first chapter of BWT, mostly, I was just really fond of this bit and didn't want to chuck it. Never fear, I'm working on the first chapter of this fic and the muses are smiling.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Rating's going up to M for language, and some rather nasty more-than-implications. There is evilness in this chapter, folks, of the intimate variety; nothing graphic and nothing more than implications (no rape or sexual acts), but still, it grossed me out so. You have been warned. This isn't a happy sweet story, and I don't intend on it getting any nicer. Ever. (Edited as of March 17, 2008)

* * *

She Apparated just outside the wards with a sharp _crack!_ The house looked different to her eyes, but she hadn't been to her aunt and uncle's home in almost thirty years. Sirius' home, now. _Merlin, what am I doing here?_

Number 12, Grimmauld Place, had always been cold and foreboding. Dragged to her relatives' home for holidays and social functions she had rarely enjoyed, Andromeda's sisters had always been more enthusiastic about the visits than she. Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion had doted on them, after the fashion of the upper class, even after Sirius and Regulus were born.

_Sirius._

She didn't even know if he was home, though the estate was always open to family. _But I won't find out just standing here._

The front walk was paved with welcoming slate, protective magics tingling gently over her skin as she passed through them. _I could have sworn it was brick._ On the stoop, Andromeda paused long enough to straighten her spine before reaching out to the nondescript – _didn't it used to be the crest?_ – doorknocker.

She let it fall only once, vaguely remembering something about an amplifying charm. Wiping sweaty hands against her suit-pants, Andromeda waited.

When elegant paneled wood and frosted glass gave way, she almost didn't recognize the man they revealed. Sirius' face was locked in stone, voice distant and formal. "Cousin."

Oh, damn, how had she forgotten? _Twenty-five years away from pureblood formalities, is how!_ "Cousin," Andromeda returned gravely, scrambling for the rest of the proper request for entrance, unable to even grasp the odd cadences and turns of phrase the older form of English required.

Her mouth moved soundlessly, searching for the appropriate response. _What do I – What did Father – how – oh, bollocks! _

Her cousin's eyebrow quirked, the corner of his mouth twitching as he watched her squirm. After several long moments, Sirius let her off the hook, swinging the front door wide. "Be welcome."

She inclined her head, stepping over the threshold. And stopped.

_Wow._

The Grimmauld Place of her youth had been chilly and austere, intimidating in its grandeur with black marble and dark wood paneling, blue carpeting and silver fixtures. All completely tasteful, and if the shadows lingering in closets and behind doors had been more ominous than the norm, no one had the bad manners to mention it.

_This_ Grimmauld Place, however, was different enough that she had to fight the urge to go back outside and check that she had the right address. Underfoot the marble of the unexpectedly broad entranceway was a blazing white, the walls paneled in gently golden wood. The beautiful crystal chandelier above had not changed, except for the glint of wire holding it together that now gleamed gold rather than silver. The stairs no longer slammed ruler-straight upwards along the left wall, but instead curled gently, arcing both upwards and across the foyer to disappear into the second floor. And it was with relief she noted the marked absence of Aunt Walburga's portrait and the severed house-elf heads that used to line both sides of the room.

_Click._

Startled, Andromeda turned as her cousin closed the door.

"Would you like something to drink?" Sirius seemed to have relaxed slightly, but his face was still difficult to read. _I wish I knew what he was thinking._

She didn't even know what _she_ had been thinking, coming back here after all these years. So she fell back on the security of social niceties. "That would be lovely."

He beckoned with one hand. "This way."

The entrance to the hallway hadn't changed, though the stairs now arched over it. Andromeda peeked left and right to rooms beyond as she traversed the foyer, gaining glimpses of large windows, bright rooms, and deep red carpeting. Most of the furniture looked similar to the memories she held, though it was all subtly different. _Lighter._

The hallway stretching to the back of the house had _definitely_ changed; it was far wider than she recalled. As she'd never seen the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, Andromeda didn't know what to make of smooth white marble floors and gray-speckled granite countertops, but she doubted it had previously been so airy and welcoming.

Sirius gestured, so she took a seat at the counter that jutted into the room. The granite peninsula separated the cupboards and stove from a large, sturdy table set before French doors which lead out into the garden.

"Tea?"

Locked into polite distance. Not what she had been expecting. "Yes, thank you."

It was only after Andromeda watched him fill the kettle at the sink and light the stove with a flick of his wand that it occurred to her. "Don't you have a house-elf to do that?"

"Not quite," Sirius gave her a half-smile, reaching across the counter to settle a cup and saucer before her. "He's being very uncooperative, at the moment. Doesn't approve of the changes I've made."

"I think it's lovely," she blurted out, hands fiddling nervously against the cool countertop and bone china.

"'Dromeda." He used her nickname with the right of family, but with caution instead of warmth. Hands braced against smooth gray stone, his pale eyes still had the power to startle her. "What are you doing here?"

Andromeda heard what her cousin didn't say. _What are you doing back in the Wizarding world, when not a week ago the Death Eaters – that you went to the Muggle world to avoid – showed their Mark more blatantly than in the last decade combined?_

She lifted her chin, and took a moment to think. "I wanted to see if I still knew you."

They hadn't ever really been close. Yes, he was her favorite cousin from childhood and she knew she had been his – but then they had been five years apart, met only on holidays, and their other options were ghastly. Hogwarts, for all they were in Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, had let the cousins meet one another unencumbered by family expectations. _If not unconfined by the trappings of our Houses._ Andromeda had liked what little she'd seen then. _But it was such a long time ago._

"Hmmm." Sirius lifted his own cup, sipping quietly. One eyebrow lifted. "And?"

She floundered. "And . . . I don't know."

Five years didn't seem like much, but she'd been out of school, living her life, while he was deciding on third-year electives. They'd reconnected a little after both had been blasted off the tapestry, knowing they were the only family they each had. _But then I met Ted, and Sirius started Auror training_ – and You-Know-Who's rise had driven her to take her small family and withdraw from the Wizarding world to avoid the destruction her cousin had crashed into.

They were tied by blood, but little more than that.

Andromeda took a deep breath, gathering her courage to break the silence that had fallen between them. "But I'd like to."

For several long moments, only the steady ticking of the grandfather clock she had passed in the hallway filtered into the silence.

Then Sirius nodded, a slow smile breaking over his face. "Alright."

* * *

"I do hope you're giving his proposal the consideration it deserves, dear." The teacup made no sound as it was replaced in the patterned china saucer.

Seth shifted in his chair, stretching languidly against deep red cushions. The parlor was transitioning from late morning to afternoon, the midday meal long since taken. "All things in due course, Mother."

An inelegant snort sounded from his left, where Iris was primping in front of a full-length mirror. Surrounded by gold gilding, her reflection was silently modeling different dresses and jewelry in the latest styles. "I for one believe the offer unworthy of the parchment it was written on."

"Darling, please restrain yourself." But the words were only rote, and Mother didn't even bother to glance Iris' way. The High Families knew the value of a woman with spirit, and their affectations had the wondrous side-effect of misleading their social inferiors to the contrary.

_Much better than that brood-mare I call wife. _Seth absently admired the rise of a lush breast. "I like the ochre one."

"Sealed with blood-red wax and the Dark Mark displayed over all of Britain's Wizarding population," Iris remarked cuttingly. She turned, her hourglass figure outlined stunningly in clinging green silk and the parlor's gentle lamplight. And naturally, she was well aware of it. "For dramatic effect, I suppose. How very gauche."

"How very like a Malfoy," Mother corrected, rising from her straight-backed chair to pace across hand-woven Oriental carpeting. She circled Iris critically, adjusting the fall of cloth and hair with the sweep of one elegant hand. "Never missing an opportunity to batter one over the head with their point."

"Still, Lucius should know better," Iris protested, shifting as Mother guided her in a tight circle. The soft _swish_ of fabric against skin and carpet was for a short moment the only sound in the room. "Planning a tête-à-tête for Samhain night. It would be ridiculous to even think of attending!"

"Clearly it was not Lucius' idea," Mother sniffed. She took several steps back, scanning her daughter up and down before moving forward once more and reaching for spiky locks of white gold. "I have known him far longer and better than either of you, and his present actions notwithstanding, he is not nearly such a fool."

"Proof that Tom Riddle is no more a true pureblood than the de Sauvaterres," Seth murmured. _Damnable in-laws. Though they, at least, pass well enough for government work._ He picked at the stitching where the delicate tapestry covering the chair-arm met burnished wood. "The circumstances of his so-called resurrection notwithstanding."

Pulling free of Mother's fussing hands, Iris stalked to a chaise-lounge and threw herself down on its padded seat with a heaving huff, showing her décolletage to best advantage. "If Lucius Malfoy is letting a half-blood foolish enough to allow himself to be twisted by his own magic order him about, he is indeed much diminished."

"Or desperate," Seth redirected his attention to the painting of his father that was perched upon the mantle, observing their proceedings with a sharp eye. _No need to pander to her ego more than necessary._

"Does it matter?"

A sharp sigh was the only concession Mother gave to her exasperation. "Would you two cease your heckling long enough to give the situation serious consideration?"

"Is that not what we've been doing?" Seth drawled, eyes locked on silk-covered curves. Iris' returning grin was both lascivious and sly. "_Considering?_"

"In our Family's history, we have been served exceeding well by half-bloods," Mother stated, twisting at the waist to level each of them with a piercing glare.

Seth exchanged a glance with skeptical green eyes the twin of his own. "Really, Mother. Do enlighten me."

She was silent for the space of several breaths, hands planted quite firmly on ample hips. "Well. I cannot seem to recall any particular instances at the moment, but I'm sure it must have happened."

"Why are you so eager to crawl in bed with Tom Riddle, Mother?" Iris asked from the chaise-lounge, much too practiced to allow even a drop of innuendo to seep into her tone.

A low hiss left the older woman. "Don't be vulgar, darling."

"Don't be transparent, Mother," Seth retorted sharply.

She turned to him, and Iris stuck out her tongue as soon as their parent's attention left her. Seth bit down hard on a grin. "Seth, you are head of the Family now, and I simply wish to ensure you are treating the position and all the accompanying responsibilities with the proper gravity."

"I am," he retorted seriously. He rested his eyes on the younger woman, firmly controlling the imp of mischief that wanted him to grin hard and wide. "I'm doing what Iris tells me."

"You ought to," was the prim retort. Her legs shifted restlessly on the lounge, thin silk sliding up the barest inch to reveal creamy skin. "I am older, you remember."

"Three minutes hardly counts, sister dear."

"Children," Mother sighed, sweeping stylish robes around a form firmly controlled by diet, exercise, and only the slightest hint of cosmetic magics. She returned to her chair, half-reclining in mostly-feigned distress. "Do have a care for my poor nerves."

Seth chuckled. _Nerves? Mother can cast the Killing Curse without showing the concern she would give over having a house-elf crush a mouse. _Hersilia Gamp-Kotkin was many things, but high-strung had never been one of them.

"Speaking of which," Iris jumped in brightly. "How is your little wife doing?"

He couldn't control his scowl. "Delilah is everything I could have hoped for," Seth recited, tired and bored with the subject since his quiet marriage a bare month ago. "A delicate flower, a beautiful jewel, the heart of my heart, the future mother of my children, etcetera, etcetera." _A frail wisp of a woman, with no color and no life, easily led._

Iris giggled, rolling up off the lounge. "Ah, wedded bliss."

"Why the sudden interest?" he asked grumpily as she approached. _Women. Always with plans and schemes and double-meanings._

She was close enough that he could smell her perfume; a soft, subtle scent with the barest hint of vanilla and cinnamon. Sweetness and bitter spice. The warmth from her body spilled over his arm, and he turned his head, letting his eyes slowly travel up from the tempting waistline, over delicious curves, to the face that was a feminine cast of his own.

His sister was the only woman who came close to matching him, and the excitement of the not-quite forbidden was enough to fire each and every nerve.

Seth watched a pink tongue emerge to wet full lips, the eyes above sparking at him in play. _She's enjoying this._

"Well," Iris breathed. "As Father has so tragically died, it now falls to you to see me properly wed." Green eyes were sweeping over him just as slowly as his had scanned her. Seth cocked a brow her way. _Like what you see?_

"Everything in its time, darling." Mother was carelessly flipping through a fashion magazine, sneering at the models and those foolish enough to allow themselves to be subject of articles. "Not until after little Delilah has gotten herself with child. Three more months should be a sufficient amount of time to assure that there is no question to the child's paternity."

It was Iris' turn to huff, and she spun away in a sulk. This time, Seth did grin as she came perilously close to whining. "Is there no better way, Mother?"

_She knows there isn't._ Seth studied his nails carefully, avoiding the burning glare from green eyes. "Having a child out of wedlock is acceptably scandalous, darling," Mother went back to her magazine after wiping the pout off Iris' face. "But when you are finally married, you must at least maintain the pretence of faithfulness to your husband. We will need the time to find someone appropriate for you."

_Someone_ _reckless enough to easily believe that the children Iris will bear are his, you mean._ But Seth didn't object; appearances were important. And it was as important to allow Mother to believe she had the control, as it was for him to maintain it. _She really thought Father would leave everything in her hands. _Foolish. But then, Mother wasn't a true Kotkin, not like they were. She was skilled and cunning, but not intelligent or practiced enough to survive their world. _Better than Delilah, but not by much._

"Oh, very well," said Iris moodily. Thwarted and disgruntled, she stalked back to the mirror once more, running carefully manicured fingers along the twisted platinum frame. A gentle glow of blue flashed across the mirror's surface, but Seth couldn't see just what she'd set the enchantment to do, as Iris turned the mirror out of his line of sight.

Mother rolled her eyes, muttering something about children with tempers, but Seth's attention was still locked on his twin. It didn't matter that he couldn't see what the reflection was showing; the mirror's subject was clear enough.

And he had a fertile imagination.

_

* * *

_

Merlin. Why me?

Because he'd been fool enough to accept when the other Aurors had voted him to lead them, that was why. _Moody retired just to get away from the paperwork, I know it._

Gawain pressed hard on the headache trying to burst out of his brain, closing his eyes against the mess of papers scattered across his desk; specifically, the Missing Persons report for one Bertha Jorkins, filed this morning. The marker softly squeaking against the white board on his wall ignored him, continuing to make its notes.

_Murders undergoing investigation: __**1.**__ Nott, Theodore. In association with attack on Minerva McGonagall, 5__th__ August. __**2.**__ Travers, Alexander (DE). In association with the murders of Reuben Yaxley (DE), Lucas Gibbon (DE), Arnold Jugson (DE) and Edwige Williamson (A), 7__th__ August. __**3.**__ The Roberts family; Matthew, Tina, Joey, Colin. Murdered by unknown Death Eaters during Quidditch World Cup, 23__rd__ August._

And that was just what had made the papers this month. A handful of domestic crimes ranging from rape to robbery were still sitting unsolved on the desks of Aurors throughout the division, as all their resources were rerouted by the Minister to focus on the event that had reached the papers even before the deaths had been confirmed. _The Dark Mark._

Fudge was demanding answers, but with only seven days having passed since the disaster at the World Cup, there was little resolution to be had.

Fingers digging into his temples, Gawain did his best to ignore the voices echoing faintly down the hall. Muffled as they were by his closed office door, he could tell they were coming closer. _Keep going, keep going - _

Paneled oak burst open, doorknob bouncing off a wall that the maintenance crew, fed up with re-plastering, had finally enchanted.

Gawain sighed.

"- telling you," Evan snapped, deep voice a throaty growl. "They're not ready, not by a long shot. If you assign them anything higher than trainee-level duties, I'll have your patch." The older man, grizzled by years of active service, settled into the soft chair Gawain kept around just for that purpose.

Doc Morris followed Evan into Gawain's office, silent but for the disapproving set of his mouth. He was a tall, slender man whose light brown hair was gently iced white at the edges of his full beard, though his face was unlined. The combined effect made him look distinguished, though he was still young by the way wizards reckoned age.

Ben kicked the door shut behind them with a vitriolic, "_Silencio._" Blond-brown hair was a rumpled mess, and his normally round, placid features had a hectic flush.

The pounding from the slammed door echoed in Gawain's skull; his wince transformed into a frown. _Evan, Ben, and Doc. That's a fun mix._ It could only be about their inactives and trainees. _Merlin, I don't have __**time**_ _for this!_ But they'd planted themselves in his office and experience told him it would take at the very least fifteen minutes of his attention to uproot them."What."

"We're dangerously low on -"

"- genius over there wants to -"

"- but they aren't -"

Frustration snapped Gawain's limited patience. "For the love of Merlin, _shut up!_"

The arguing subsided abruptly.

_Breathe._ "Ben."

The Auror stalked forward from where he'd been leaning just inside the office door. "Our numbers are seriously low," he informed the Head of the Aurors.

"I thought we were at full ranks," Gawain returned. His temper wanted to snarl out of control, thumping in time with the clatter in his head. "Aside from Williamson."

"For peacetime, yes." Doc Morris' voice was calm and measured, his gaze studiously fixed on Gawain's whiteboard, where multi-colored markers were still scribbling away. Relaxing further into the only other chair in the room, Doc steepled his fingers, nostrils flaring in a deep sigh.

"Ah!" Ben jabbed the air with one finger. "But it's not peacetime, is it!"

_Um, what?_ "No one's declared war that I know of," Gawain pressed hard at one temple, anticipating a spike in his headache. On cue, the spike made itself known.

"Exactly!" Evan's voice blared as the head of their training program jumped into the argument headfirst. _At least Tsavaras practices what he preaches. No hesitation._ "And without wartime status authorization, there's no way we can recruit the number of new Aurors you're talking about, Ben!"

Gawain held out a hand. "How many _are_ we talking about, here?"

"Too many," Evan growled, slamming a fist against the top of Gawain's paper-covered desk. The rickety piece of furniture shuddered alarmingly. It was crappy, but it was the only desk he had and he'd just about managed to remember exactly which papers were where. _Evan breaks it, I'll kill him. There's got to be somebody I could bump up to replace him. Witherspoon, maybe –_ _and she'd probably fill out the "requisite forms" too._

Damn paperwork.

"We need to double the current complement of Aurors," Ben said darkly, arms folded stubbornly across his chest. The silver threading on his Auror patch glinted under the office lights. "At least."

_Merlin's balls. _Gawain took a deep breath, opening his mouth. "That's -"

"Okay, but my point still stands," Evan interrupted, swiveling on one foot to face Ben fully. "We're not at war!"

The head of the Aurors gritted his teeth. Gawain could almost hear the _twang_ as Ben's temper snapped. "So we shouldn't prepare at all?" the shorter man yelled.

"So, we can't _justify_ to Fudge our need to have more active Aurors on duty, since we have no _proof _that You-Know-Who is anything other than dead!" Evan's face was tight, a muscle flexing under one unshaven cheek.

Ben sneered, expansively, arms spread wide. "Death Eaters at the World Cup not enough for you? And that's not even getting to the Dark Mark glowing in the sky over thousands of Wizarding families from all over the world for the _second_ time in one month! Remember Hogsmeade?! We have more unsolved murders involving Death Eaters under investigation now than at any time in the past ten years! _Including_ the death of one of our own!"

Doc spoke up from his chair. "Cause of death for Williamson was the Kiss, not the Killing Curse."

Everyone ignored him.

"Look – it's not that I don't agree with you," Evan took a step closer, moving face-to-face with the angrily sputtering Auror.

Gawain snorted at that, eyes catching the Doc's. _About which part? You-Know-Who being back, or needing more Aurors? _"Coulda fooled me."

A cynical smile was the only response Morris gave him.

"But Fudge is a bloody ostrich!" Evan continued, deep voice a low rumble of fury. "There's no way he'll approve of demands that increased recruitment will put on the Auror's budget. Not for an unconfirmed threat."

_Not unconfirmed for long._ But it was better not to even think about that. Gawain had had enough. "Quiet!" his voice lashed the air. Evan glared at him, but the Head of the Aurors matched their Instructor eye for eye. "Ben."

"Yeah?" His friend's face was distinctly wary, though belligerence was written in his very stance. _Feet braced for impact, knees slightly bent. Body tilted to absorb the blow and present a smaller target. _Merlin, but he hoped they weren't telegraphing this obviously to the Death Eaters.

Gawain shook the thought away. "You're saying this is necessary."

"I'm saying You-Know-Who is back and we're buggered if we're not prepared for what that means."

Whether or not he personally believed it, the evidence was there. For all their hidden crimes, all the backlash against Muggle-borns that had come in the wake of the destruction of Godric's Hollow a decade and more ago, none of the Dark Lord's followers had thrown the Dark Mark into the sky. _Not until a month ago._

The paperwork on his desk, the tiny notes scribbling themselves onto every available inch of whiteboard, were more than hint enough that their current ranks were just too few to deal with the crimes being perpetrated in Magical Britain. Gawain nodded. "Fine. You're working the numbers. I want every person, every Sickle, accounted for _at all times._ The budget on this will be tight, and if you screw up, it'll be scrapped. And you want new Aurors? You're in charge of recruitment, too."

A mix of victory and _oh, shit_ passed through blue eyes. Gawain saw Ben's jaw tense, but he got there first. "Is that a _problem?_"

"No. Sir," Ben bit off at the pointed stare leveled his way.

_Good. Next._

"Evan," Gawain drawled, taking a slightly different tack with this man, to whom logic was just as important as spell-smarts. "I was glad to hear that you weren't opposed to the idea of doubling our ranks. Because you're going to train them. I want them ready in six months."

The instructor sputtered from under his sparse mustache. "Six months!"

"Tsavaras, can you do it or not?" Gawain had to consciously flex the muscles in his cheeks to stop his teeth from grinding, to make the words as careless as they needed to be to prick the Instructor's pride just enough, without crossing the line into true insult. The pounding in his head had escalated into a never-ending game of Exploding Snap.

"Oh I can do it," the older man growled. "But I'm pulling Abby from full rotation to help."

"Fine." Any longer and he was going to lose it. "Take what you need, just get the hell out of my office." Gawain retreated behind his desk as his unwelcome visitors shuffled about on their way to the door.

Evan paused at the threshold, the last one out. "Robards. There still isn't the money for-"

"You do your job," Gawain almost snarled, "and I'll do mine."

The older man's spine stiffened abruptly, just before the door landed heavily in the jamb. Head propped against massaging fingers, Gawain didn't bother holding back a wince. _And stay out, damn it. _

Gawain's office policy wasn't so much "open door" as "enter if you dare." _For all the good it's done me. _His fellow Aurors weren't intimidated by a bit of wood and a metal knob, no matter how sturdy.

So he set a strong locking spell on it before making his Fire-Call.

* * *

Sunlight streamed through every window as Rob clattered down the stairs, tie loose around his neck. The small kitchen overflowed with early-morning light, warm and golden where it spilled over the tiny table and its two occupants. "Honey, have you seen my old robes?"

Amanda looked up from the plate of toast she was smothering with raspberry jam. Apprehension flicked over expressive features before she hid it with a smile for their five-year-old daughter. "The ones you use for yard-work?"

Yard-work. _Not quite._ And they both knew it.

"Yep." Rob slipped past his wife on his way to the refrigerator, pausing to bend for a kiss. "Got some stuff to take care of today, don't want to get my good clothes dirty."

The quiet sigh that left her as she slid the toast-laden plate to the center of the table said more about her dislike for this aspect of his life than any argument ever would. Rob's gut tightened at the unhappiness in beloved brown eyes. _God, I wish I didn't have to._

But he did, and it was the second pair of brown eyes, large and curious as they fixed on him, that ensured it. "Daddy, are you gonna try an' plant something again?" The small face, almost a miniature casting of his wife's, scrunched at the thought. Melissa reached for the toast, tipping a large slice carefully onto her plate.

Distracted, even if only slightly, Rob huffed a laugh. He took a seat, pouring milk into a plastic cup for the littlest Channesy. "No, Snidget. Remember what happened last time?"

The grin that shone at him was berry-stained, and Amanda already had a damp cloth waiting. Their daughter giggled, loud and beautiful. "Mud pies!"

"Wipe your face, sweetie." Amanda smiled, the expression turning sad as her attention shifted from the little girl swiping at the sticky mess on round cheeks, to Rob. "Are you going to be home for dinner tonight?"

He couldn't hold back the wince, but met her eyes squarely. "Probably not."

They had agreed, when their relationship got serious, that there would be no secrets – no withholding of information. Full disclosure. Nine years, one marriage and one child later, it was still an agreement they clung to.

"I'll wait a plate for you in the fridge, then. Your robes are in the closet in the shed." Though her words were casual, deep brown eyes implored him to be careful.

Rob nodded. _Put in a half day, then make sure to slip away while Skeeter's on the lunchroom prowl._ The woman was notorious at trying to ingratiate herself enough with coworkers and Nick to get off the gossip beat and into headliner news. The reporter snagged a piece of toast for himself, wolfing it in four bites as his daughter stared, fascinated. Rob's wink won him a bright giggle. "Alright, Snidget. Ready for school?"

"Yeah!" The little girl slithered off her chair, socks hitting linoleum without a sound. "I gotta kiss Fluffy g'bye first! Daddy, wait for me!" And she shot out of the room like an Aethonon, long brown hair streaming behind her.

_As if I would leave without her._ Rob smiled, twisted in his chair to watch the door, listening to little feet pound up the stairs as he waited.

A hand settled over his where it rested on the table, gently squeezing his fingers. He turned.

Soft lips met his, coaxing and sweet. When the kiss broke, Rob caught a glimpse of tears brimming in brown eyes before they fell shut. Worry spiked. _She doesn't like to let me see her cry. _Amanda rested her forehead against his. "Promise me you'll be careful."

His heart thumped, and somehow the sunlight permeating the kitchen was not as cheerful as it had been. _Something's wrong._ Rob wrapped his arms around his wife. "You know I will, Amanda."

His wife's body hitched with a silent sob, so slightly that if he hadn't been holding her, he would have missed it. Panic ratcheted up a notch. "Babe?"

She shuddered a sigh, pulling back with a wet laugh. "It's nothing. I'm overreacting. I – It's just – I worry."

He tucked a lock of shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear, fingers trailing along her cheek. Amanda stood, pulling away and shaking her head. "I don't know what's gotten into me."

Rob took a breath, pushing to his feet. "You know I wouldn't do this -"

"I know why you do it," Amanda said curtly, temper flaring. She whipped around, snatching the empty plate from the table with a glare and dropping it none too carefully in the sink. Hands braced on the counter, she looked steadily out the window as she spoke. "Gawain needs to know. So does the Order."

"No," Rob kept his voice gentle, counterpoint to his wife's unexpected sharpness. Though her back was to him, she had her head tilted enough for him to make out the curve of ear cheekbone, and the sweep of pink lips. _She's listening. _"I do it for you, and for Melissa. I do it to keep you safe."

The brown eyes that met his were wet, anger a shield that had evaporated and left tears behind. "That makes it worse."

A little figure raced through the tension in the room, babbling and happily unaware. "I kissed Fluffy g'bye, and I got my shoes on all by myself, and I almos' forgot my bookbag, but I'm ready to go now, Daddy." His daughter, head barely reaching his waist, was clinging to his leg and smiling.

Rob blinked, jarred from the moment and caught flat-footed for a moment. "Alright, Snidget. Kiss Mommy goodbye, okay?"

"'Kay. Bye, Mommy!" And the weight on his leg detached, running across the kitchen to barrel into Amanda's legs. "Love you."

His wife knelt, hugging their daughter close. There was only the faintest trace of tears in her voice when she spoke. "I love you too, Snidget. Have a good day at school, alright?"

"Alright!" At a particularly tight squeeze, the little girl's head tilted back, long hair just brushing the seat of her pants. Rob knew she was seeing the same pale face and slightly reddened eyes that he was. "Mommy? You look sad."

Rob winced. _So much for the obliviousness of five-year-olds._ Just another sign that the little girl proudly attending her first week of magical primary school was neither the infant he'd cradled, nor the toddler whose first steps he'd watched with terrified pride.

"Ah, but don't you know that hugs fix everything?" Amanda asked, a small smile chasing away the shadows in her eyes.

Their daughter latched on to her, a small figure in a purple top and bluejeans, squeezing fiercely as high as she could reach. "I'll fix it, Mommy. See, all better now, right?"

Brown eyes locked with blue over her head, resignation replacing the sorrow. The littlest Channesy took the smile at face value; Rob knew it was forced. "Right, Snigdet."

* * *

"And I can assure you, the Aurors are pursuing this copycat. Finding this criminal is our number-one priority," Fudge said smoothly. He'd had a lot of practice striking just the right balance between sincerity and sternness in the years since the Potter boy had become famous. He made sure to smile at the crowd, resolute with a touch of sadness, even as he was blinded by flashbulbs. _Poignancy appeals to the voters. Emotion and strength in hard times._

A moment of silence made it clear to the reporters that the time for speeches had ended, and the time for questions had begun. Hands shot into the air; Fudge picked a pretty woman with the WWN logo sparkling from a badge pinned to her robes.

"Minister! It has been a week since the incident at the World Cup. What message do you want to send to the concerned Wizarding families of Britain?"

"Let the witches and wizards of our country know," Fudge cleared his throat. "I have devoted all relevant Ministry resources, from the Unspeakables to the entirety of the DMLE, towards bringing this criminal to justice, and I am confident -"

"Justice? Like the justice that Sirius Black received?"

The smile almost slipped from his face, but he'd been receiving comments like this for months. Fudge searched for the troublemaker as he continued to speak. "Indeed. Mr. Black was exonerated from the charges leveled against him, and restitution was made." _That he insisted on donating entirely to some charity, damn him._ And then the press had gotten wind of it.

The reporter's voice was clear and cool, and much too audible. "Twelve years of imprisonment, suffering, and slander, for a crime he didn't commit? Accused without evidence, incarcerated without a trial? Is that what Wizarding Britain's justice is?"

_It's that damnable reporter from the Daily Prophet._ And the others, vultures that they were, had quieted to listen.

Fudge changed his stance, just the slightest. _Don't attack or get defensive. Deflect. Misdirect._ "Wizarding justice is the LeStranges behind bars and the fall of You-Know-Who, Mr. Hennessy. And yes, at the time, Wizarding justice was the imprisonment of Mr. Black. Given the available evidence, it was imperative to keep young Harry Potter safe after the murder of his poor parents. Sending Mr. Black to Azkaban was the only solution the DMLE could see, at the time. Unfortunately, we know now that our Aurors are not perfect. Would you condemn them for that?"

Only a complete idiot would give him time to respond. "Thank you all for your time. Good day." Wand pointed at his throat, Fudge whispered, "_Quietus._" The press conference was over now, whether they liked it or not.

He didn't give them another glance, making his way toward the door that would lead to a hallway just behind the Ministry's main conference room and ignoring the multitude of pop-bulb flashes from avid cameras. Well, that was over for the day, barring any unforeseen disasters.

Cornelius' assistant scuttled up to him the minute the lock clicked behind him. He didn't give the spindly man a chance to speak. "Who invited that damnable Daily Prophet reporter here?" he snapped. "And why haven't the Aurors submitted a report on the hunt for that villain yet?! I've given them a week, and they still haven't even got a suspect! What in Merlin's name are they _doing_ down there if not hunting down criminals! Blasted Robards, I didn't approve of Bones' decision when she made it, but it was her department and I let her run it as she pleased so long as the consequences weren't – well." He pulled himself up short, remembering who he was talking to.

His assistant's perpetually anxious expression had deepened drastically, sweat gathering in the furrows on his brow. "Sir, you really do think that it's a copycat? Even with the Dark Mark?" The man gulped, his enormous adam's apple bobbing ridiculously in his stork-like throat. A copy of _The Quibbler_ was clutched between his trembling fingers.

_Not another one._ "Of course," Fudge snapped irritably. He ran well-manicured fingers down the front of his impeccably tailored robes and suit, turning to check the mirror. _Good. Unruffled at the end, just as you started._ "You-Know-Who is dead. All those rumors are a load of poppycock, spread by fools who jump at their own shadows. A right bunch of nonsense. We always knew that we would never find all the Death Eaters after the night You-Know-Who was killed, and this just proves it."

The headline of _The Quibbler _popped out at him. _**Government Conceals Dark Lord's Return!**_ Sharing the front page was the article: _**Heathcote Barbary Engaged to Sister-in-Law's Ghost!**_

Cornelius glared. "And don't read that trash."

"Oh, dear, oh dear," the stooped man muttered nervously. But the tabloid disappeared into the pile of paperwork he'd clamped under one armpit. "Um, Minister, sir – I have, I have the reworked schedule for your, sir, for appointments for the week, sir -"

_Merlin save me from stuttering fools._ Cornelius continued towards his office, set on a soothing cup of tea to calm his nerves."Yes, yes, Curmudgeon -"

"Uh, that's Gudgeon, sir."

"- tell the American Ambassador I'll have time tomorrow to see him -"

"Her, sir."

Wingtip shoes scuffed against thick burgundy carpet. Cornelius blinked. "The American Ambassador is a woman? Whatever happened to -" _What the devil is his name? Some color?_ "- Brown?"

His assistant scratched nervously at his prematurely balding pate. A greasy sheen of sweat was bright on Curmudgeon's nose. "Greene, sir, Mr. Elias Greene. Poor health, sir. He resigned just three days ago."

"Huh." Chewing on his lip a moment, Cornelius considered. "What's wrong with him?"

"Oh." Eyes brightening, his aide leaned in closer, like a drooping daffodil. Cornelius very nearly stepped back as the man's body odor became regretfully ostensible. "Very embarrassing, very hush-hush. But I had it straight from his secretary, sir." Curmudgeon's voice dropped to a whisper. "He's got Squabbs Syndrome, sir. His doctor insisted he retire, and go home to rest in warmer climes."

"Squabb's Syndrome?" A frown worked its way onto the Minister's forehead. He started walking again, trying to outpace his assistant's malodorous aura. "I've never heard of it." _Sounds dreadfully uncomfortable, whatever it is._

"Well, sir, apparently it's an affliction of the – er," his assistant made a pointed downwards motion.

"The what?" Cornelius demanded, finally able to see the door to his office. Curmudgeon's face turned tomato-red, and the pointing grew a little more insistent. Clarity dawned. "Oh." Quite without his permission, the Minister's face scrunched in sympathetic masculine disgust. "Ahem. Well. That is unfortunate."

A vigorous nod was his only answer.

Another thought occurred. "Warmer climes, eh? And what, may I ask, is wrong with England's weather?" Cornelius harrumphed, one hand resting on the doorknob leading to his office. "Foreigners. Weak constitutions. Well, can't be helped I suppose."

"Quite right, sir," Curmudgeon grinned.

_He's not a bad sort, for all the stuttering. True Englishman._ Cornelius swung the door open, stepping into his well-lit threshold and ignoring the sudden stammering behind him.

"Oh, wait – sir, I have – for your signature, sir, the Department of Magical Transportation needs a -"

The door and its attached silencing charm cut the man off with a _snap!_ and Cornelius was finally left in peace. Whatever it was, it would surely hold until tomorrow. He'd dealt with the bone-picking reporters, and the evening radio news and following morning's edition of the _Daily Prophet_ would reflect that. _Must lean harder on Robard, and get some results from the Auror Division. The people need an answer, and I must have one to give them. The right one, naturally._

Carefully pulling off his plum-colored robes, Cornelius cast them over the back of one Queen Anne chair before slumping down behind his desk. Cherry wood gleamed, where it peeked out from underneath the folders his aide had plopped down just yesterday. Small matters that didn't even require the Minister's attention, but which Curmudgeon insisted on distracting him with. Ignoring a stack of reports from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, he reached for a secret compartment hidden in the underside of the desk's top left drawer.

A unique password, whispered against the keyhole, had the drawer's bottom sliding smoothly aside.

Cornelius paused, contemplating the rough manuscript of his memoirs, before reaching further back. _Ah. There you are._ The gold notebook was small now, but the next election was still far enough away that his plans hadn't spilled over into multiple booklets quite yet. _Let me see._

Cracking the leather cover, he dipped a quill in Quik-Dry ink and began to scratch out ideas. _Campaign bases. Crackdown on Death Eaters? Hard-line, good appeal. _But dangerous, certainly, with the potential to backfire badly if the Aurors couldn't produce results. He'd have to speak to Bones about that, posthaste. _Selling points: international cooperation reaching a new high. DMT undergoing revisions to emphasize consumer safety, especially with the Firebolt now on the national/international market. _He'd have to be careful selling the international cooperation bit, though. Barty Crouch was very well-liked and, as Department head for International Magical Cooperation, well situated to take that and turn it into his own bid for Minister of Magic.

Sucking absently on the end of the eagle-feather, he turned to the portrait behind his desk. The Muggle portrayed there was bent over some piece of paper or another, starting as the contraption on his desk began to emit a jarring noise in even pulses. _Still at it, eh?_ Fondness for the silly, beset man filled him as Cornelius puffed away at the ink; Quik-Dry or not, it still took too long. _Really, what does he have to worry himself about?_ The Muggle world was free of the threat of such Dark powers as You-Know-Who's followers stooped to, even if the people were vulnerable to them. But that was Cornelius' job. _Or rather, the Aurors' jobs. _

Replacing the notebook and locking the drawer with care, Cornelius stood and walked toward the closet, intent on his coat and cane and a quick Apparition home. He would have to meet with other members of his Party to discuss the upcoming elections. Next week would probably be best; there was that dratted meeting with the new American Ambassador tomorrow, and then he needed to shuffle the bulk of the paperwork off his desk and to the Department heads – that was their job, after all.

But after that, he really did need to find himself a new assistant.


	3. Chapter 2

_**Oddfellows**_ didn't advertise. It didn't need to.

A stone's throw from the most disreputable part of Knocturn Alley, the oldest bar in the world showed the street nothing but a sturdy door bound by strips of iron, its name carved deep into scarred wood. Most people passed by without giving it a second glance, intent upon other, decidedly more dodgy, pursuits.

And despite careful scanning of both sides of the filthy street, Sirius nearly missed it. "Damn," he muttered, halting so swiftly that he only just avoided skidding against dirty cobblestones. Thirteen years had passed since his last visit, and a lot of things had changed. But the door was – almost – always open, no password required. _C'mon, Monty, don't have changed your hours._

It was one of the few places in London he could go without attracting stares and whispers. _**Oddfellows**_ catered to stranger clientele than one ambiguous and recently emancipated Auror.

Ducking under the lintel, Sirius made sure the door closed smoothly behind him. But he hadn't taken three steps past the threshold before someone marked his entrance, and shouted over the hearty bustle. "Sirius Black, as I live and breathe!"

The man who stepped out from behind the bar was thick and short, unchanged but for a few more wrinkles and the completely bald scalp that had once been sparsely covered with orange tufts. Sirius would know the older wizard anywhere. _Some things don't change._ "Monty."

He extended his wand hand, and the older man grasped it, familiar and warm. The next thing Sirius knew, he'd been pulled into a rough hug. "Damn, boy."

A laugh broke free from him as they separated. "I'm thirty-four, Monty."

"Still a young 'un," the bartender grinned.

Sirius rolled his eyes, feeling sixteen all over again. _Great._ "How've you been? How's Erykah? Lenox?"

Happiness drained from Monty's craggy face, leaving the man looking old and grim.

_Damn._ Not five minutes in and he was already dodging hexes down memory lane. Sirius dropped his voice, letting the clink of mugs and jumble of voices from the bar seep between them. "Merlin, Monty, I'm so sorry."

"Erykah's fine," the older man said as if Sirius hadn't spoken. A widower since before Sirius had met him, his only family had been two children that were his pride, joy, and occasional pain in the arse. "Made me a granddaddy. Got three bairnes, the oldest just turned ten. Quite a temper on her, too – she magicked her brother into a package for the post-owls to take to Bora-Bora last month. She'll be at Hogwarts next fall, we think."

"_Llongyfarchion_," Sirius congratulated him. "That's good to hear."

"Lenox was killed," Monty said abruptly. One hand came up, fingers rubbing over his mouth and the bushy mustache above it. "In eighty-six. Reduction curse. Caught the wrong side of a Death Eater. They never caught the bastard."

Sirius winced. He'd known Lenox briefly; the man had been an almost spitting image of Monty's long-dead wife, according to family and pictures. "I'm sorry."

"Nay, I'm sorry," Monty retreated back behind the bar, and Sirius followed to lean against dark, beer-stained wood, raising a brow in question. The old bartender polished a glass, eyes fixed determinedly on the rag in his hands. "Lenox's death left me in a bad way, and I threw some curses in your direction because of it. It wasn't warranted, and I'm sorry for it."

The Auror blinked, a little unsure. There were people denying his trial, saying even if he wasn't guilty he couldn't be sane and should be in St. Mungo's or back in Azkaban. There were people who still blamed him for the Potters' deaths – himself not least among them. Most people looked at him sideways, having heard only the distorted tales bandied about in the news; it didn't matter to him, because the people who were important to him knew the truth. "It's alright."

"No, it's not," Monty retorted, but without the heat that Sirius had expected. Brown eyes were surprisingly gentle as they settled on him, and a mug of ale was extended his way. "But nevermind. What brings ye back round here?"

"I got your note." The first sip was dark and rich. Sirius shifted sideways, the bar pressing against his side and the wall a few feet from his back as he took in the crowded room.

"Ah!" the bartender brightened visibly. "Right, then. I have something in the back ye probably want to see."

_What?_ Sirius quirked a brow, swallowing a mouthful of ale. He put his mug down, and Monty hissed at him.

"No sense letting good drink go to waste," the bartender chastised. "It'll keep until you're finished, that it will." Someone down at the other end rapped sharply on the bar, and Monty ambled along its length until he reached the customer. Sirius watched as they exchanged a few words, but his attention was soon drawn by the scattered crowd.

All sorts congregated here, but twelve years in Azkaban and one on the run meant Sirius didn't really recognize any of them. Certainly none were familiar from the days he himself had spent tending the bar and running Monty's errands after his parents disowned him. But one particularly shabby man caught his attention. _Old cloak, nondescript robes. Mustache and beard hiding most of his face. What skin is visible is dark. Long hair, hangs in his eyes._ All tricks that would hinder anyone trying to give an accurate description of him, but combined just gave the impression of general dereliction. Typical for Knocturn Alley, but not so much for _**Oddfellows**_; Monty didn't let anyone in who couldn't pay.

Steps behind the bar pulled his gaze away; Sirius glanced at Monty and tilted his head in the man's direction. "Who's that?"

"Who, him?" the bartender grunted.

Sirius nodded, humming an affirmative.

Monty smiled and pulled a rag from behind the bar to sweep dry cloth over its surface. "That there is Mundungus Fletcher. Not much of a wizard, by all accounts, but he keeps his ear to the ground is the word. Always good for a bit of gossip, is ole Dung. And every once in awhile he manages to scrounge up enough Knuts for a pint. Harmless," was the bartender's summation.

The gossip alone would make the man welcome in any bar in London. Indeed, the man looked to be plying his trade even as they watched, muttering lowly to a few other characters who by their clothes had clearly known better days.

Sirius let his gaze travel over the room. Dark beams crossed the walls, white plaster thick over the stones that filled the spaces between. Every so often a window broke the monotony, though they each showed different images from exotic locations rather than peering into the stores sharing _**Oddfellow**_'s walls. Men and women clustered together at round tables dotted throughout the room, and directly across from the bar itself a fire roared against the iron of a meter-high grate. It definitely wasn't _**The Witchery**_, with its upscale lighting enchantments and high-end liquor crowd, not far from the Ministry and catering to most of its employees. He finished the dregs of his ale, settling the mug against the bar.

Sirius looked at Monty.

A gap-toothed smile shone back at him. "Ye ready, then?"

He nodded.

Monty's face sobered, dark eyes measuring as they flicked over his face. "The boy I knew would've been all excitement by now, talking my ear off and threatening a jinx or two if I kept him waiting. Ye _have_ changed."

In Azkaban, Sirius had learned the value of silence – mostly because it was so rare. It had taught him to keep his own counsel; there was no one to speak to, and sometimes he'd been certain that if he opened his mouth, he'd start screaming and never stop. _But this isn't Azkaban._ Remus kept reminding him, and it looked like maybe his wisdom was starting to stick. And Monty deserved more. So Sirius made the effort and dredged up a small smile. "It was bound to happen."

The bartender grunted, something inflexible hiding in his expression. "This way, then."

Sirius followed the shorter man as he wound his way through tables and past his patrons, tossing smiles and hearty words when he was hailed, but never stopping. The Auror was led to a door tucked in the very back of the bar. Monty's hand hit the handle, and bright letters flared to life at chest-height. _**Staff Only**_.

Pulling his wand free, Monty tapped the handle twice and the door slid open accommodatingly.

"I seem to remember having to whisper a password into the keyhole," Sirius commented as Monty led him into a cramped hallway with dozens of crates and three closed doors interspersed along the right-hand wall. At the end of the hall, a staircase disappeared upwards into darkness.

"Yeah," the old bartender huffed. "Damned inconvenient, that was, always having to bend and kiss the lock when ye were carrying crates of Butterbeer. Also, Erykah broke Lenox's nose by accident, some years back."

Startled, Sirius barked out a laugh.

"She was coming out with two bottles of Firewhiskey in one hand and that week's inventory in the other, and she kicked open the door just as he was going to say the password, and that was the end of that." The stocky shoulders preceding him shrugged. "Between the blood and the screaming, and always having a few customers with sharper ears than sense, it was easier to just get a more secure locking-spell. Even if I have to do more juggling to get a wand free, sometimes." He stopped in front of the last door before the stairs, fumbling at his belt for the keys. "Ah, here we are."

Sirius followed him into a room that smelled like dust and spilled alcohol.

Monty muttered a quiet spell, and lamps around the room flared to life. It was a storage cellar, quiet and deeply shadowed. The barkeep moved further in, stepping around and through the assorted bins and clutter with ease. Sirius followed, tangling his feet in a coil of rope after only a few steps, narrowly missing landing face-first in a wooden crate brimming with potatoes. Catching his hand on the edge of the crate, he felt splinters dig into his palm and swore.

The old barkeep laughed. "A few things have shifted since ye were last down here," he called back.

"No, really?" The healing spell Sirius aimed at his palm yanked free the splinters in a blink, blood dotting the skin. His next step took him out of range of the rope on the floor, but Sirius was forced to duck several baskets hanging from a low beam. "Merlin's balls, Monty, what are you keeping back here? And when was the last time anyone –"

He caught sight of black curves trimmed with dusty chrome, and froze.

His old friend was standing by the motorcycle, dark eyes locked on Sirius. "Hagrid brought it here after the – well, the day after. Man didn't know what to do with it, so I said I'd take it."

"Merlin, Monty," Sirius breathed, reaching out. _I don't believe it._ His hands left wide streaks in the dust and dirt that had accumulated over the years, but Sirius didn't care. The leather seat was dry and cracked with disuse, but the body had been kept dry and there was no obvious rust.

Monty cleared his throat. "Don't rightly know why I kept it, but after the trial, I thought ye might be wanting it back."

"I never thought I'd see her again," Sirius whispered. "I had her that night. I was getting groceries, books, some stuff for Harry. That's why it took me so long to get to Pettigrew's in the first place –" His voice broke, and he snapped his mouth shut. "I left it there. I wonder how Hagrid got it."

But Sirius knew. Dumbledore always was a stickler for details; the man rarely let anything slip. He shook his head, and met his old friend's eyes. "Thank you," he said honestly, though the next words came with difficulty. "This – it . . . means . . . a lot."

"Posh." But Monty's face was ruddy. The older man cleared his throat. "I take it ye'll be getting this clutter off my hands, then? Been taking up valuable storage space."

Sirius looked beyond the bike to the other half of the room, which was completely bare. "I can see that," he said dryly. But he couldn't stop the soft smile as his fingers traced new patterns against the dusty motorcycle. "Yeah, I'll be getting her out of here for you."

"Good." But the expression on Monty's face, assessing and warm, left Sirius with the definite impression that he was talking about something else.

* * *

"Squabb's Syndrome? Don't tell me he actually _believed_ that?" She had the notes for today's meeting, the message points she needed to get across, and an agenda for the follow-up with her staff. _Pencil, paper, and none of that messy quill-and-ink business._

"He's not exactly the sharpest Crayon in the box," her aide shrugged.

Hana stared. "You're kidding. I thought that was just a rumor!"

"You know what they say about rumors." Jeff sorted quickly through a pile of paperwork, efficiently dividing it three ways.

"They always start somewhere?" Hana suggested. Turning from her aide's desk, she uncapped a bottle of water and took a healthy gulp. _Fudge can't possibly be that stupid. At the very least, someone else in the Ministry should have caught it._ But even if they had, no one had bothered to inform their boss. If that was the case, the internal government dynamic here in Britain was more negative than she had thought.

"They always have a grain of truth," Jeff corrected absently, attention still on the pile of papers. Some things required individualized attention rather than impersonal spellwork. "In this case, it's more than a grain, apparently."

Hana huffed, glancing at the clock. _Ten minutes; just enough time to get to the Minister's office if we leave soon. _"I still can't believe Elias pulled out. He was the Ambassador during the last internal crisis they had over here." She walked to the door, juggling her notes to get a hand free.

Jeff _tsk_ed, finally pushing himself away from the sucking heaps of parchment. He scooped up his own essentials for the meeting, mouth running as he crossed the room. "Be fair, Hana. He's getting on in years, and yeah, he was Ambassador during the last time this Voldemort guy was on the rise. He said it was like one of the inner circles of Hell, with spies and racist murders all the damn time, everyone on edge and the militia barely managing to keep people from widespread panic. He even got a message from one of the higher Death Eaters assuring him of his safety, given their commitment to positive international relations. Contingent, of course, on his promise to assist in negotiations between Voldemort and Washington."

"Well, _that's_ reassuring," she muttered dryly. They stepped out into the hall together, Jeff making sure to lock the door of their borrowed office.

"No, definitely not," he agreed. "I don't know who his role models are for whatever world domination scheme he's cooked up, but it's a safe bet Hitler was one of them. He's got people terrified to even say his name."

_Time to play devil's advocate. _"Names have power." Hana gave a brief smile to a passing employee, and got a blank stare in return as the woman strode past them in the opposite direction. _Britain. _As islands went, she wasn't sure yet what she thought of this one._ What I wouldn't give to be back on Moloka'i. _

"Power over the individual, yes, and conjuring power over demons," Jeff retorted. They passed from the hallway into a bustling corridor, and he lowered his voice. Hana glanced over to see him speaking from behind a cordial smile, lips barely moving. "He's not a demon."

"That's debatable," Hana matched her volume to his.

"Fine," Jeff scoffed, clearly unwilling to get into a debate on semantics. "He's just trying to strike fear into the hearts of the masses. And from what I've heard, it's not even his real name. Some scary monster that appears out of nowhere is a helluva lot more frightening than someone you remember going through primary school with, even if they are a mass-murderer."

"Point," she admitted, striding along determinedly and forcing a small crowd to part around her as she arrowed towards the elevators. _It's not that I don't understand why Elias cut and run. It's just . . . why did they want _me_ for this job?_ She snorted at herself. _And can I have some cheese with that whine?_

Jeff hit the call button for the elevator, and there was an almost instantaneous chime. "Good service," he muttered, stepping into the empty car.

"It's about the only thing that's been on time so far," Hana commented as she followed.

Jeff groaned in agreement. "I suppose it is a good thing that we've got a temporary setup in the same building," he said grudgingly. The elevator panel had a wide range of choices, but nothing so clear as floor numbers. She scanned the departments listed, but her aide reached past her to tap a gold button with the label: _**Minister's Office**_. "But I'd still rather be working out of the Embassy."

"So would I." Hana couldn't keep the grimness out of her voice. Brown eyes locked on the ostentatious gold button, and she fought back a scowl as the elevator rose. It wasn't subtle, not in the slightest. _Does everything around here pander to the man's ego? I wonder if the British have jokes about overcompensating._

She could feel Jeff looking at her. "Tell me you're not going to raise a fuss over this with the Minister."

The smile she sent his way was all teeth. The elevator glided to a halt, doors sweeping open. "Would I do that?"

"In a heartbeat," Jeff grumbled, right at her heels as she strode into the lobby.

It was a decent sized room, the floor luxurious marble. Both walls and ceiling were finely molded, and gilded with pure gold. Several tapestries were present as well, suspended by magic a good two feet out from the walls themselves, so as not to obscure the fine detailing of the architecture. The effect was opulent, and probably intended to be overwhelming. _Gaudy,_ Hana decided._ I wonder where they got the money for all this?_

The only other thing in the room was a large desk perched on spindly legs, behind which sat a storklike man of indeterminate age. A casual glance told her that he was both too tall and too thin to be the Minister of Magic. He also looked nothing like the man, though Hana had yet to meet Cornelius Fudge in person. _Secretary or security guard,_ she decided, and approached.

"Ambassador Hana Pruitt to see the Minister of Magic."

The man behind the desk – Hana searched in vain for a nameplate – ducked his head, flipping open a thick ledger and sliding one finger down a column of splotchy print. "Ahhh, mmm, yes, Ms. Ambassador," he coughed. "Your appointment isn't until half ten, I'm afraid."

_Yes, three minutes from now. _She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I trust my punctuality isn't disrupting the Minister's schedule in any way?" she inquired, injecting just a touch of acidity into the polite question.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jeff's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. _Jerk,_ she thought fondly.

"Um, ahh, no, of course not," the – she was going with secretary, at this point – backpedalled. "Ah -"

Hana jumped in before he could continue. "In that case, I would appreciate if you could show me to his office." She made a show of checking her watch. "I had anticipated that we could begin our discussions immediately upon my arrival, as there are several delicate matters which require a timely response. And as my appointment begins now, as a matter of fact, I must insist upon it."

"Um -"

"But of course if you're busy I can show myself in," she offered. Hana scrutinized the walls for a second and made out the door, cleverly concealed in the wall to the left of the desk.

The secretary's face was pasty, a cold sweat shining on his upper lip. "Um, n-no, ma'am, that – that won't be necessary." He stumbled to his feet, barely managing to squeeze in front of her as she paced relentlessly towards the door.

There was a bare knock before he stuck his head into the room. Hana listened, but his voice was muffled. _Just the door, or a silencing charm? _

The reliance of European wizards on spells and enchantments, even when there was a non-magical solution available, never ceased to amaze.

When the man pulled his head out of the office, his cheeks were a bright red and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "The Minister is just concluding his business," he squeaked. "He apologizes for his meeting running over. He should be able to see you shortly."

Hana might have given him the stink-eye if it hadn't been so obvious that he had no control over the situation. The secretary shut the door, shuffling back to his desk and plopping into his seat. There were no other chairs in the room.

_Wonderful. _Her anger only grew at that; power-plays were more than childish, especially when they stooped to the point of making people stand around and wait.

It was a full fifteen minutes before a young blonde witch scurried out of the Minister's office. Hana caught a glimpse of slightly disheveled hair and smudged lipstick on a smiling mouth before the woman disappeared into the elevator. Something cold and furious settled in her stomach.

_That power-hungry son of a bitch. Thank God Elias gave me everything he had on him before going home._

On her feet, pure anger sparking off her skin, Hana stalked towards the door.

* * *

"So is it true?"

Gawain paused, bottle of butterbeer halfway to his mouth. "Is what true?"

Rob rolled his eyes, leaning forward and lowering his voice below the chatter that filled the _**Leaky Cauldron**_. "I heard the American Ambassador tore Fudge to shreds in their meeting this morning."

The bottle of butterbeer impacted the bar with the heavy sound of full glass against wood. "How in the hell do you hear these things?" Gawain asked. He rubbed the back of his neck, muscles coiling against rising stress. "Seriously. Because if I need to work on internal security, I'd rather have you tell me now than find out when an assassin gets through to the Minister or one of the department heads."

The reporter flapped one hand carelessly. "I went to the American Embassy this morning on a tip. Looks like the Ambassador has relocated. Also, she gave me a few quotes."

"Did she now?"

Rob coughed. "Um, yes. Unfortunately, only two of them are printable."

Gawain groaned. "Merlin save us from another media shitstorm."

"It won't be that bad," the reporter assured him. His words were almost immediately belied by the way he tilted his head, hazel eyes shooting over the words he'd scribbled into one of his omnipresent notepads. "I think."

"No, but I'll have that Skeeter woman up my arse again for sure," Gawain snapped. He took an angry gulp of butterbeer. It was warm against the inside of his throat, but he was in no mood to be soothed by sweetness. "Merlin curse it."

"If I were you, I'd pay a call to Alastor Moody." Rob ignored his bitter tirade against bone-picking reporters with the aplomb of long exposure. "He'd have an idea of how to handle this."

"Man's retired," Gawain pointed out.

"So?" Rob gave him a curious glance.

"So he told me he'd kick my arse if I interrupted his well-deserved relaxation with politics. And I'd deserve it."

The reporter heaved a sigh, tearing two pieces of paper out of his notebook and folding the little pad away. "It's Alastor Moody, Gawain. How much relaxation do you _really_ think he's getting? Especially with what happened at the -" Rob's face paled, and he swallowed hard. "At the Cup?"

_Moody's probably stocking up for another war._ Merlin knew Gawain's lieutenants were trying to prepare for one. Just in case. "Fine," he sighed. "But if Moody kills me, I'm going to haunt you."

Hazel eyes rolled. "Fine." Rob folded the papers in his hand, and made as if to put them in a pocket. Some sleight of hand later, he'd produced enough Knuts to pay for his butterbeer, and the papers were safely hidden in Gawain's pocket instead. "I'll see you next week?"

"Sounds good," Gawain nodded, not shifting from his stool. "Take care, and say hi to Amanda for me."

Rob stood, resettling his robes on his shoulders. "Will do."

Gawain watched unobtrusively as his friend headed out the front door of the _**Leaky Cauldron**_, walking back to the _Daily Prophet_'s main London office a few streets away. The information Rob had slipped him was heavy in his pocket, but he'd had a lot of practice at pretending nothing was bothering him. _Usually there's only enough info for half a page or so. Merlin, but I don't think I'm going to like what I read._

Rob had definitely been more close-mouthed than usual, though the heavy crowd in the bar had prevented him from shielding them and that might account for it. Warm sweetness curled over his tongue as Gawain lifted the butterbeer to his lips and took a long swallow. He waited until a few more people left the pub before draining the bottle.

Time to get back to work.

* * *

The old geezer was _humming._

Off-tune and only just loud enough to be heard over the fence, but it had been going on for almost an hour now. Bartemius had long ago promised himself this man's head on a plate, for the capture an imprisonment of his compatriots. But now. For his tone-deafness alone he ought to die a slow death.

Bartemius peered through the slats in the fence, careful not to get too close to the alarm spells saturating the very wood. The old man grunted, song breaking off and electric-blue eye rolling wildly in his skull even as he pruned a trailing vine of roses.

_Roses._

Azkaban had not had roses, no, nor sunshine, blue sky, fresh wind. While he had been locked away in a dark, dank tower, this man had been basking in the elements, walking free through Britain. And for what crime?

For daring to believe in a better world than the ineffectual Ministry could ever even hope of providing to the Wizarding populace of Britain. Bartemius had suffered for his devotion to a dream and the man who would make it possible. He owed his dear, departed mother everything for his escape. When his Lord's world came about, he would petition his Lord to have the day he escaped from prison made Mother's Day, so all would honor his mother's sacrifice for Bartemius' freedom. Which he would soon turn into the freedom of his compatriots.

But first, he had a mission given to him by Lord Voldemort himself. A mission of unparalleled import.

_And if it cost me my life, I will succeed. _

On the other side of the fence Moody raised sharp clippers, snipping away a brown trail of thorns.

Hidden behind an invisibility cloak and the very protections that the former Auror had raised around his home, Bartemius kept careful note of every action, step, and gesture. If his plan was to succeed, it was essential that he become in all ways a perfect copy of Alastor Moody.

The thought was enough to turn his empty stomach.

But in only twelve hours, he would take action. Moody was right to feel comfortable, feel safe in the house he had turned into a fortress. The protections were pervasive, and strong enough to prickle the hair on his arms while simply walking down the street. But his Lord had shown him that nothing was absolute; that there were holes everywhere, waiting to be exploited. And that nothing could stand in the face of the righteousness of their purpose; certainly not Mad-Eye Moody's blind belief in the security of his home. _We are going to change the world._

For his goal, Bartemius could withstand any trial, any indignity, and even death itself was not unconquerable. His Mark had flared to life with the rebirth of his Lord, and Bartemius' faith, though it had never wavered, revived itself with a vigor strong enough to break him free from his bastard father's Imperious will.

Though he had wanted to run straight to his Lord, he knew his position so close to one of the vaunted Ministry's Department Heads would make him a valuable source of current information. So he had been forced to wait until the World Cup, playing on his father's limited sentiment for a wife who had died and a son he had never cared to know well, ensuring his attendance there. And he had met his Lord – his Lord, who had granted him the singular honor of being the one to shed the first blood in his renewed war, and to throw into the sky the proud declaration of Lord Voldemort's return.

Oblivious behind his wooden fence, Moody was tying up the roses, training them along a delicate trellis set against the fence. His thick fingers trailed over soft yellow petals, rubbing gently. So, the former Auror who had captured his fellows to condemn them to a man-made hell for all their long wizarding lives had a fondness for flowers?

Bartemius would drag yellow petals through Moody's blood, and make the old man eat them.

First, he had to get inside.

If the pattern the old man had established over the past three days was accurate, it was just about time for him to return to the house for afternoon tea. Which would take up to two hours; a glimpse through the windows had shown the former Auror involved in correspondence with Owls and Fire-Calls, though Bartemius had not yet compiled a complete list of everyone he was in contact with.

_Doubtless those fools in the Ministry, and perhaps even the Order of the Phoenix._

It was no secret among Lord Voldemort's followers that Alastor Moody led a cell of members of Dumbledore's Order. A few other leaders were known – Amelia Bones, Minerva McGonagall, Benjamin Travers. And there were others who were most certainly members of that group – families with long histories of unconcern regarding the future of their world. And the large amount of half-skilled, half-blooded weaklings who tried to claim a place in the wizarding world. They would receive their due soon enough.

For now he must concentrate.

After tea Moody generally retreated within the house – to a study, Bartemius believed. For all the opportunity he might have to go out, the old Auror stayed in. Received groceries by special owl order, even. _He thinks he's safe. Thinks no one can get to him._

But oh, if Bartemius just wanted him dead, he could set the house on fire. Poison the groceries. Send a curse-bomb through the Fire-Call grate, or even by owl. Wait for the old man to be entranced in his garden, and attack. He could do it any number of ways, and it would be _easy_. But much as he craved it, killing Moody was not his objective. The old man's death was desired and, at the moment, almost assured, but he had more worth alive. Dead, he could only soothe the fires of vengeance in Bartemius' heart. Alive? Alive, he could deliver into Lord Voldemort's hands _anyone_ his Lord desired. The Minister of Magic himself would not decline a meeting with the most famous Auror of the century.

_If Fudge had any worth at all, he might even be a target._ Bartemius snorted at the thought. Cornelius Fudge was best left to thinking he ran the Ministry, and with a little corralling and the judicious application of fear, he would lead the Wizarding government right where they wanted it.

Bartemius had a far more valuable target in mind.

He stood from where he had been crouched behind the fence all morning, stretching carefully beneath his invisibility cloak. He draped the folds securely around his legs, the motion instinctual after years of familiarity and allowing him to move freely while remaining securely hidden. Bartemius stalked the perimeter of the fence, noting possible access points where multiple enchantments did not quite evenly join, or where old spellwork had worn thin. For all Moody had many powerful protections, the finer points of his magic had frayed with time. _The devil is in the details._

The sun had sunk while he was lost in thought; twilight was drawing near. He had absently noted the arrival and departure of a visitor through the Floo, but he was not quite as attentive as he had once been.

_Another thing Azkaban has taken from me._

But in the fullness of time, he would have restitution.

Bartemius found the access point he intended to use – a spot where deteriorating magic was blocked by a haze of spells surrounding three garbage bins set against the inside of the fence, separated from him only by magic and thin wood – and waited for dark.

* * *

There was no thought. Only movement.

Block. Spin. Kick. Drop. See the opening – hit. Duck, block, hit – muscles speeding of their own accord, skin slippery with sweat. Use it to slip from the hold his opponent tried to close around his torso, pulling away from grappling close-quarters with the bigger man.

Sudden swift pressure behind one knee sent him tumbling to the mat, and Hayato rolled away. A breath later he surged to upwards, grabbing the opponent that was lunging down to pin him. A quick twist flipped the larger man over Hayato's head.

Adrenaline spiked in his blood with the possibility of victory – he pounced.

The next minute filled itself with straining muscles and grunts of effort. A hand slapped thick padding twice. "Alright, alright, you win!"

"Say it," Hayato demanded, giving in to the smirk that wanted to break his composure.

Layne struggled a bit more, groaning when all it got him was a nearly-dislocated shoulder. More than seventeen stone of weight meant nothing when Hayato got leverage on his side. "Come on!"

"Nope."

The rib cage beneath him heaved in a sigh. Layne twisted his neck enough to glare at him out of one eye. "I bow before your might, Fujoika _sensei_. Okay? Can I get up now?"

"Eh, good enough." Hayato released him, and stepped back before Layne could act on whatever revenge he was currently plotting. "I own your ass."

"You're a dick," Layne countered, getting to his feet and twisting out his spine with a wet _pop_ and a happy sigh. "Jap."

Hayato sniggered. "Jiggaboo."

"Dink." Layne fell into step next to him as they headed off the mats, beginning to weave through rows of exercise equipment on the way to the men's showers.

"I'm not Vietnamese. Darky." He reached for where his towel was slung over a barbell, wiping the back of one arm across his streaming forehead.

Layne smirked. "You all look alike to me. Pancake."

"Porch monkey."

"Gook."

He'd been stuck on this one last time, unable to come up with an appropriate counter-slur starting with _g_ within their (extremely short) agreed-on time limit_._ Hayato grinned. _Not gonna catch me out on this one again! _"Golliwog."

That got him a puzzled, if good-natured, glare; Layne couldn't hold back a laugh. "What the hell? Where in Merlin's name did you find that one?"

Hawk resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. Barely. "You just don't want to admit I won." For all it was almost over . . . _I'm having a damn good day._

"Now now, boys, play nice."

_And it just got better. _

Morgana Horne, lithe and beautiful and utterly deadly, supple curves draped in close-fitting workout clothes, slender hands pristinely wrapped for work on the punching bag that she was currently leaning against. Thick waves of dark brown hair, clear sapphire eyes, red lips, porcelain skin – she was the embodiment of Venus and featured prominently in the dreams of most men she met. Even sweat only seemed to make her sexier.

And Layne had been trying his luck, without success, for the past two years. "I'd like to play with you," he crooned, trying to make his deep bass voice alluring rather than blankly intimidating.

_You have _got _to be kidding me._ "Really, man?" Hayato paused to hang his towel over the back of his neck, chuckling. "That's the best you've got?"

Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I just got my ass handed to me. I'm not on top form."

"Clearly," Morgana drawled.

Hayato liked watching her cut Layne off at the knees – it put him just about at her height, and she usually followed up with a swift kick to the balls just to make sure his ego was pounded into the mat.

But she didn't say anything, which wasn't unusual for Morgana around others, but wasn't the norm when it was just the three of them. _Especially not when she's got the opportunity served up to her on a golden platter. _"Aw, what's wrong, Horny?"

Chill blue eyes flashed at him, Morgana pushing off the hanging bag and stalking forward. "Hawk. What have I told you about calling me that?"

He tried a grin, swinging a leg over the nearest exercise bench and plopping his butt down. A moving target might have a better chance at survival – _scratch that, anything is smarter than staying in range when Morgana's ready to explode in a shower of hexes – _but he had a different objective. "Not to?"

She _bristled._

"I think," Layne interjected, scrubbing his own towel over his shaved head, "that she said that if you called her that again, and I quote, 'you'll be finding out what it's like to dredge the Thames from the river bottom,' unquote."

"Not really some of your best stuff, Morgana," Hayato mused. "I think I preferred the one where you threatened to disembowel me with a rusty spoon."

If the witch staring at him was a cat, she'd be hissing with claws bared. As a human, she merely propped her hands on her hips and managed to lower the temperature of the room using her voice alone. "Did you now?"

"I was particularly fond of the one where she was gonna rip out your entrails through your nostrils." Layne started stretching, quads and calves the first things that always tightened up on him.

"Ooh, yeah! Definite points for graphic imagery," Hayato nodded.

"I'll remember that," she snarled.

He could feel sweat cooling on his skin, turning his t-shirt cold and clammy. _Gonna have to stretch, then shower, then stretch again, maybe. _"What about when she threatened to reach down my throat, tear out my heart and make me eat it?"

"I did like that one," Layne reflected, mid-stretch. He stood from his lunge, and reached both arms high above his head as he slowly leant from side to side, pulling gently on his obliques. "Not as much as when she was gonna have you keel-hauled through shark-infested waters, though."

Hayato almost laughed. "Yeah, that one definitely had a certain flair, didn't it."

"I'd have to agree."

Morgana looked back and forth between them, shaking her head. Hayato grinned smugly at his sometimes-partner and always-friend, and got an answering smirk in return. "How did your mothers not drown you at birth?" she wondered.

"It's all a part of our charm," Layne assured her.

Morgana's laugh flowed from her as if she couldn't help it, and Hayato felt his grin turn soft. _Mission accomplished._ "Really, Morgana, what's wrong?"

Slender fingers tugged at the wrappings on her hands, pulling the edge of a bandage from where it was tucked underneath the careful padding. She met his gaze squarely. "Did you hear that Bones authorized Robard to start heavy-duty recruiting? It came through this afternoon."

"Yeah, we heard." Layne shook out his arms and frowned at her. "So?"

Morgana rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, used strips of cloth clenched in one tight fist. "_So_ not only are there going to be a whole new bunch of green trainees parading around, Robard decided it would be a good time for everyone to brush up on their sneaking skills, too."

Hayato grunted. _Great. Training seminars._

Like Research & Development, the Hit Wizards were a highly specialized subset of the Aurors, and as such subject to the oversight of the DMLE as a whole. _Much as none of us want to admit it._ Most of the time their assignments came directly from Amelia Bones, but there was the rare occasion that Minister Fudge put pressure on the department to produce results. It was then that all the subsets became lumped in with the Aurors for greater collaboration, and everyone felt it.

_Only one reason Morgana would be so tweaked about this._ Hayato exchanged a glance with Layne, who had moved to the floor and was pushing himself up into a bridge. "Let me guess. She's making you teach 'em."

The smile that turned his way was grim, and just the faintest bit wicked. "Oh, not just me."

Hayato groaned, falling back on the thinly-padded bench. "Oh, no."

A _thump_ and accompanying moan from his left indicated that Layne had dropped to the floor.

"You guessed it," Morgana tilted an irritated kick at the punching bag, making it vibrate on its chain. "She's tapped all of Minority Report for it. Welcome to the fun, guys."

_Fun. Right. No assignments for the duration. Just lesson plans and tests and trying to pound some stealth into people more likely to jump in, wands blazing. Just . . . great. _

"Merlin's balls, I hate teaching," Layne whined. There was a considering pause. "She didn't actually call us that, did she?"

Hayato had unintentionally started it, arriving to report in one day at the same time as Layne and Morgana and noting that the three of them were the only members of the Hit Wizards who were not both white and male. He'd playfully called out, "Ms. Bones, ma'am, minorities reporting in!"

And the three of them had somehow been stuck with the moniker ever since. _If Bones uses it, we'll never _ever_ be free of it._

"Yep." Morgana did not sound pleased.

Hayato wasn't going to look and see how pissed she actually was. He squinched his eyes shut, debating his chances of survival if he played possum. _Yeah, not good._

"Damn it, Hawk," Layne groused. The exercise bench Hayato was draped across shook, hard; the sound of thick rubber clanging off metal told Hayato that his friend had kicked it. _I'm not opening my eyes to find out._ "And damn your love for Muggle movies. _Bad_ Muggle movies," he added pointedly.

"Hey!" Hayato came up fighting. "My movies are _not_ bad! Minority Report was a great -"

"No it wasn't," Morgana and Layne cut him off together, and then stared at each other warily.

"But it had -"

"No it didn't." Again, in eerie unison.

"Would you stop that!" Hayato grumped petulantly. He only just kept himself from stomping a foot against the floor. "You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"Ask me if I care," Layne muttered, still on the ground.

"It doesn't matter." Morgana waved an elegant hand, dismissing them both. "That movie sucked. No two ways about it."

Hayato glared.

"I can hex you and make it look like an accident," she said blithely. "I'm _good_ at it."

"I bet there's a _lot_ of things you're good at." Layne was still on the floor, staring up at her. Well, parts of her, at any rate.

"Pity you'll never know," she shot back. Her lips pursed, sapphire eyes flicking over the large Hit Wizard still splayed across filthy carpet. "Better watch yourself, Bakema. You're working your way up my list."

"Your _To Do_ List?" Layne said hopefully.

Hayato blinked, unsettled by the smile that, on any other woman, he would have called sexy. _Wow. That's . . . a lot of teeth. Very white. Kind of . . . sharp?_

"No," Morgana breathed, leaning over him, all lascivious seduction. But in the space of an instant, the heat she was projecting vanished. "My _To Kill_ List." She rolled her eyes, stepping lightly on his chest and over. "Idiot."

Layne grunted, sitting up to stare after her as she strode away. "Ouch."

"You're lucky you're still all in one piece," Hayato informed him. Morgana really was magnificent when she was pissed. "And your original color. It was pink, wasn't it, the last time?"

His friend found his feet, face foreboding. "Salmon."

"And a very masculine salmon it was," Hayato said agreeably. Upright once more, he headed for the showers, not missing the almost genuine glare Layne tossed his way. "Schvartse," he offered an olive branch.

Layne bumped shoulders with him companionably, nearly sending Hayato sprawling into a tangle of wires and weights. But the big man was fighting a smile; he could see it in the jerking muscles in Layne's check. "Slopey."

"Nig-nog." They were through the gymnasium at last, into the empty hallway leading to the men's locker room.

"Nip." Layne shouldered the door open, heading for the showers.

Hawk grinned, calling out one last insult as he slipped down a row of lockers. "Mudblood!"

Layne's laugh echoed off navy tile. "Moron!"

**

* * *

**

**A/N: **_**Oddfellows**_ has two sources of inspiration; first and most prominently, the bar "Strangefellows" in Simon R. Green's Nightside series, which is in that universe the oldest bar in the world, and has been around for thousands of years. It is my personal belief he took his inspiration from a place in London called Oddfellows, which I heard tell of while I was there. I took the name from the actual place in London, a bit of the concept from Mr. Green, and made the rest up.

**A/N2: **Yes, the Hit Wizards are using racial slurs against one another. Just as a CMA thing, those opinions projected and actions taken are those of the characters – fictional people, here! – portrayed and do not reflect the author's – that is to say, _my_ – opinions, thoughts, or actions in any way, shape, or form. These two men are, in case you couldn't tell, insulting one another as a way of displaying-without-displaying their affection for each other. Just to reiterate because it's been a long time and I stink that way, SAS is a very rough-and-tumble story. If you want fluffy goodness and sweetness and light, let me redirect you to TQW, which will be somewhat more hopeful. I did do my best to use the slurs I'm unfamiliar with, somewhat in the hopes that it's because they're not as popular/widely-used as others and I won't have overtly offended anyone.

**A/N3:** And yeah, it's a lame reference to Minority Report, which was kindof terrible, and I'm playing with timelines again, whatever.


End file.
